Scars
by MengPoNiang
Summary: In which Michelangelo remembers his first scar.


_**Again, adapted from a piece I wrote for another fandom. **_

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Michelangelo gave a little huff of pain when the needle bit into his hand, stinging the flesh, as Donatello stitched up his palm. Don didn't say anything, just glanced at his brother's face with searching eyes, then returned his attention to his work. It wasn't much of anything really, Mike told himself, trying to ignore the discomfort, and he'd had worse. A few quick stitches and it would just be a memory with a scar.

He still remembered how he got his first scar, even though it had long since faded to near-invisibility.

_He was twelve, and Leonardo and Raphael had dragged him off into the sewers to hunt what Raph called "the biggest rat in the Five Boroughs" . Said it would be a bonding experience, as though all families bonded over the corpse of a giant rodent beast. Never mind that Mike would rather have bonded over some video games, maybe over a deluxe-with-double-everything pizza. Donatello had tagged along, ostensibly because he was bored, but Mike caught his intense gaze several times, and knew that Don was just there to watch his back. Just like always._

_They had stalked silently through the darkness, not speaking, communicating only with hand gestures and pointed looks. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Mike couldn't help but get caught up in the thrill of the chase. He watched Leo and Raph intently, mimicking their postures, their moves, their statures._

_So caught up with mirroring his brothers, Mike never saw it coming. The rat, huge as a housecat, came out of nowhere to knock Mike to the ground, and for a split second he saw nothing but teeth and fur and wild, red eyes. He felt a vague sense of fear, a pang of adrenaline that started in his crotch and raced upward toward his stomach, but there was no panic. His brothers were close. Nothing could happen to him. And then Leonardo grabbed the beast up, seizing it by the scruff of the neck, and flung it away, whirling to nail it with his katana before it even hit the ground._

_Mike sat up, brushed mud from his hands. He didn't even realize that he had been hurt, not until his Donatello noticed the blood on his calf, which had been torn open by a jagged, broken piece of rebar. Don gently pulled Mike to his feet, his concern betrayed by the look in his eyes, and he smoothed away some of the blood with his hand. Raphael shoved Donatello out of the way, sending him sprawling, and knelt at Michelangelo's side. Though he was cursing and berating Mike in his gruff voice, Raphael's hands were gentle as he pressed his palm against the wound._

_Mike watched with detached interest as his own blood, hot and bright, slicked his brother's hands. Young as he was, he had seen enough blood in his life to not be bothered by the sight. The dojo wasn't always PG rated, nor were they always as careful as their father nagged them to be._

_Mike opened his mouth to protest when Leonardo stooped and lifted him piggyback, carrying him like a young, sleepy child, but his voice wouldn't come. Instead, he surrendered and leaned forward against his brother's shell, a strange contentment bubbling away in his heart as he was carried back to the lair. It seemed that the sight of his blood had jarred something in his brothers, something that felt like love, and fear, and even regret._

_Back at the lair, Leonardo set him gently on his bed as Donatello grabbed the tackle box of medical supplies from the kitchen. He lifted the top, revealing neat little rows of compartments, each full of medical supplies: thread, needles, ointments, bandages, gauze, like a tiny traveling emergency room._

_Raphael stood watch at the bedroom door, looking out for Splinter, while Donatello hovered over Mike, a needle in his hand and an apology on his face. He sat on the bed and pulled Mike's foot into his lap. A few quick stitches (Raph dubbed it popping Mike's cherry, which earned him a smack from Leo), and that was that. Mike stared down at the railroad track of black thread, mouth puckering as he studied the neat pattern, the ordered march of stitches, each one a little bite in his skin._

_The springs in the bed squealed as Raphael flopped to a seat next to Michelangelo, all gangly arms and legs. "Look on the bright side, Mike. Girls dig scars." He inspected the stitched wound, sucking in his cheeks. "Oh, yeah, that one'll be a chick magnet." Mike couldn't help but giggle and he swatted at his brother, which initiated a full-on wrestling match that only ended when Leonardo threatened to tell Splinter the whole sordid story of Operation Big-Ass Rat._

Michelangelo's mind snapped back to reality when he heard Raphael's voice. "Come on, tiger. Let's go get some food and pick up some broads. Can use your bandage as a magnet, broads dig the vulnerable, injured type."

Mike couldn't stop a smile as he shrugged into his coat. No matter how much time goes by, some things never change.


End file.
